Death is all you talk about,
And probably all you've ever known.
A razor's all you got,
To draw on your wrists.
You clench fingers in fists,
You fight hard,
But your insides are always sore,
Leaving you to be a wretched soul forevermore.
Here are some few things,
I have to say,
You breath in oxygen,
You take up space,
You're made of atoms,
Why?
You matter.
No pun intended.
YOU ARE READING
Epigrams
PoetryIt appears you've found my book and before you decide to read it's contents, know that... These poems are everything that is me. (Also the cover was made by my buddy FierroThorne!)
